


A Lesson in Broomstick Handling

by testosterone_tea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Emotional Sex, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Potterlock, Quidditch, Teenlock, Virgin Sherlock, exchangelock, exchangelock au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 12:17:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1940757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/testosterone_tea/pseuds/testosterone_tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a secret, Sherlock knows half of it, and everyone else thinks they know it and won't stop talking about it.</p>
<p>As it turns out, everyone else was on the right track, but Sherlock and John are far too busy riding broomsticks to notice.</p>
<p>A little bit messy, a little bit mortified and a whole lot of Moriarty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lesson in Broomstick Handling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [edgywhitepeople](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=edgywhitepeople).



> This was written for the Exchangelock over on Tumblr. My giftee is [edgywhitepeople/whitesmustbestopped](http://edgywhitepeople.tumblr.com/) and the parts of their request that I followed were for Potterlock, teenlock and sports AU.
> 
> Sorry if it seems weird, but it's been a long time since I've been a teenager [This is my Tumblr](http://testosterone-tea.tumblr.com/) if anyone wants to come hang out, read and write even more Johnlock fanfiction or obsess over Ben and Martin.

### A Lesson in Broomstick Handling: a comprehensive study by Sherlock Holmes and John H. Watson

**For: edgywhitepeople**

 

John was just finishing up breakfast in the Great Hall and was making his way to Potions when he heard the news.

"Did you hear?" Eustace Clarens, on of the Gryffindor beaters, asked excitedly. "They let Holmes back on the team!"

John hadn't heard, actually.

"Why?" he asked, following the seventh year Gryffindors that had made it into Advanced Potions down to the dungeons.

"He was able to prove that he knew exactly what he was doing in the game last year with that stunt he pulled in the last game," Eustace said, rolling his eyes. "Apparently. Still, pretty rotten trick to play on Hooper, yeah?"

Molly Hooper had had to be taken to the hospital wing and get several of her teeth regrown after what Holmes had done.

John shrugged. "That's the game. And anyway, you have to admit: that Wronski Feint was absolutely gorgeous."

"I'm glad you think so," a voice behind them said, and John jumped.

Sherlock Holmes himself smirked at them as he passed them on their way down to the dungeons and John frowned.

"Isn't he a sixth year?" he asked Eustace.

"I bet he got advanced a year," Eustace said with a sigh. "Even for a Ravenclaw, he's ridiculously smart. I heard he made Professor Rhine _cry_ last year."

John thought that probably had more to do with the fact that she'd been pregnant, and Holmes had been giving her a hard time. Luckily, this year she was on leave and they had a substitute Potions teacher.

"Too bad about his attitude," Eustace continued. "If he weren't such a humungous arse, I bet he'd have all the girls hanging off him."

"He still sort of does, he just ignores them," John pointed out.

"Lucky for you, you don't," Eustace said with a grin and a back pat. "So, are you still dating Sarah?"

"Um, I don't really know," John admitted with a shrug. "We were dating at the end of last year, but since we got back, she hasn't talked to me much."

"Did you go out over the summer?" Eustace asked.

"A bit. We went to Forteque's," John said. "I dunno, guess she wasn't that keen."

"Oh well," Eustace said. "Back to trying to get a date. Shouldn't be too hard for old Three House Watson, right?"

John blushed and glared, "I told you guys not to call me that!"

"Call him what?" asked Mike Stamford, coming up on his other side.

Mike was in Hufflepuff, the only one from his House to make it into Seventh Year Potions. He had been extremely relieved at the end of last year, because without a NEWT in Potions, he would never be allowed to be a Healer.

"Three House Watson!" Eustace said gleefully, and John swatted at him in embarrassment.

"Give it up, Watson," Mike said, shaking his head. "You've dated girls in three out of four Hogwarts Houses and everyone already knows it."

"That's not what I heard," Sally Donovan said in a sing-song voice as she came up behind them.

"What did you hear?" John asked, fearing the dreaded answer.

"I heard you've _slept_ with girls in three out of four Hogwarts Houses," Sally said, unfortunately just as they entered the Potions class, and loudly enough that everyone already in the classroom heard her.

"Is that true?" Eustace asked, eyes wide.

"Um..." John said, holding his hands up in front of him.

"It's so true," Donovan said. "Sarah told me all about it last year."

"That's only one," argued Eustace.

"Didn't he get Molly, too?" asked Mike.

"Mike!" John protested.

"Shut it, Watson, we're trying to count your conquests," Sally said, holding a hand up in his face.

"What about Ravenclaw?" asked Eustace. 

"He totally got it on with Soo-Lin Yao, too," Sally said smugly.

"That was my sister," John interrupted.

"Isn't she dating Clara now?"

"I heard she slept with Irene in Slytherin."

"So, what, between both the Watsons, they've slept with most of the school," Sally said.

"It's all just guessing unless you're Holmes," Eustace said with a sigh.

And then, they all remembered that Sherlock Holmes was, in fact, present. All eyes turned on Holmes, who was sitting in the back of the classroom with a bored look on his face.

"Is it true, freak?" Sally demanded, still stung by her rejected advance in fifth year. "Has Watson really slept with girls in Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Gryffindor?"

"Oh, don't ask that!" Mike said. "Ask how many people he's slept with. Maybe it's more than three!"

John watched Holmes' face nervously. He had no doubt that Sherlock Holmes could figure out exactly how many people he'd slept with. He'd done it before. In fact, he'd outed Sally when she started dating that Slytherin guy. He knew everything about everyone, and generally, nothing was a secret, and he didn't care whether or not the person wanted him to tell people.

"Not my concern," Holmes said, not even looking up. "What you should really be asking, is where's the Potions teacher?"

"Why don't you tell us?" Eustace asked.

"I could, but you lot should really try and figure it out for yourselves," Holmes said with a careless shrug. "You're seventh years now. Can't be coddled forever, after all."

The argument was broken up by the timely arrival of the Potions teacher.

"This one's pregnant, too," Holmes announced abruptly. "And it's not her fiance's either."

That comment started such a round of pandemonium that nothing else pertaining to Potions went on in that class for the rest of the day. John and the others found themselves back in the Great Hall with a free double period, and Holmes found himself in the Headmaster's office.

"Why didn't he spill the bean on you?" asked Sally sulkily. "Instead, he went off after poor Professor Marigold."

"He's never dated anyone at all," Eustace pointed out. "I bet anything to do with sex is a no-no topic for him."

"He seemed pretty calm to me," Mike said.

"Freak's a virgin, no doubt about it," Sally said nastily.

"As are you, Sally," Holmes said on his way past their table, broomstick slung over his shoulder. "What was the saying? Something about glass houses and stones, I think. The difference being that I don't care, and you so obviously do. Laterz!"

Sally flushed darkly and left the table.

John hesitated, then got up to go after Holmes. It was true, Holmes never held back his observations, even when the information he was revealing was sensitive. So why hadn't he said anything?

Holmes was obviously out on the Quidditch pitch, taking the spare time as an opportunity for practice. Of course, it was all his fault they had spare time in the first place. He'd made _another_ teacher cry! 

When he arrived, Holmes was already up in the air, and John sat in the stands to watch. His maneuvering was so precise and balanced that John had no trouble believing that Sherlock had calculated that Wronski Feint last year down to the millimeter.

He and Holmes were opposites when it came to flying.

Everyone said they were the same, because they both did the exact same crazy stunts in the air without any regard for their personal safety. But it wasn't the same at all as far as John was concerned. Holmes knew exactly what he was doing. John had seen him in the Great Hall making charts and calculations, ignoring the rest of the world around him. He never tried a single maneuver without writing it out on parchment first.

John just did them.

Holmes didn't like that, he was pretty sure. John would watch someone do something, and then he would do it, just like that, and it frustrated Holmes, or so it seemed, because a lot of the time, it was Holmes himself that John was copying the move from.

And something that he hadn't told anyone else so far this year was that now that he'd seen Holmes do a Wronski Feint, he was somewhat sure he could pull it off, too.

When they first started out as Seekers, Holmes had been a skinny little thing with a perfect Seeker's build. John had the exact same height and weight, or so Holmes had told him upon their first meeting. The difference came somewhere around their fifth and sixth years respectively. John had added muscle and shoulder width, whereas Holmes had shot up a full six inches over the summer.

Neither of them really had Seeker's builds anymore, but both of them had seen it as more of a challenge than anything.

Eventually, Holmes noticed John watching him and came in for a landing. Or, he had noticed John a long time ago, and had decided that he'd left him waiting long enough. The second option was more likely, actually.

Holmes tore over to the Quidditch stands, did a handstand on the rail, and did a flip off of it. He landed on the row of bleachers in front of John and then sauntered up to him, grinning, hair delightfully windblown. John spent a passing moment wondering what his curls would feel like if John twined his fingers in them.

Right. No having momentary sexual fantasies when the world's most observant wizard was looking at you.

It hadn't escaped his notice that Holmes had grown out of his gawky phase and was actually starting to look like he belonged to his body. Not to mention the cheekbones. But the windblown hair was doing things to him, and it just wasn't fair.

Because the thing that John had hoped Sherlock wouldn't tell his classmates was that they were a bit wrong on the count of how many people he'd slept with.

John Possibly-Bisexual Watson had slept with a man over the summer.

The more time John spent staring at Holmes, the more he thought that his assessment of his own sexuality was spot on.

It wasn't just that John didn't want Sally and company to know he'd slept with a guy, it was that he didn't want them to know that he wanted to sleep with Sherlock. He'd never hear the end of it. It was true what Sally had said though, Holmes had seemed particularly oblivious when it came to girls hitting on him and recognizing they were interested. So hopefully, Sherlock wouldn't notice.

"I know you slept with Moriarty," Holmes said as he approached.

"I thought you might," John said with a shrug. "It was just the once though. Why didn't you say anything?"

"I just don't care," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "Sex is something that really doesn't interest me."

"What? Why?" John asked, frowning.

"It's messy," Sherlock said. "So why are you up here?"

John shuffled his feet awkwardly. "I wanted to ask if there was something I could do to ensure you wouldn't tell anyone."

"Tell them what?" Sherlock asked.

"That I'm bi," John said.

"So you've accepted it," Sherlock said musingly. "I didn't think you would. Interesting."

"Can you just promise you won't tell anyone," John asked with more determination.

"Why do you think I'd tell anyone?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You tell everyone's secrets," John said, with a gesture of one arm. "Even your own," he added, remembering the virgin comment from earlier.

"That wasn't a secret at all," Sherlock said with the edge of a smile sneaking onto his face. "Anyone with any sense of observation could tell you that."

"No one but you has that," John said. "So... can you... just, not tell anyone? Please."

"Why are you asking _me_ to promise when it was our dear Jim, Slytherin seeker, whose broomstick you took a ride on?" Sherlock asked, smirking.

John coughed.

"Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed, eyes gleaming. "Other way around, was it?"

"Okay, I can tell you're just drawing this out, but I'll give you whatever you want if you just promise not to tell anyone," John said. "I'll do your homework –"

"Homework is dull."

"Tell you where the Room of Requirement is."

"Seventh floor, across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy."

"Carry your books."

"I can carry my own books."

John went on to offer Sherlock several more things that were turned down one after the other. John, growing increasingly desperate, couldn't think of anything else that Holmes might possibly want.

"Okay, fine. Name your price," John said, ears burning in shame.

Sherlock just smirked at him, sauntered over to where his broomstick was still hovering in the air and took off, without a word.

Frustrated, John went back to the Great Hall to try and think up another plan of attack. Holmes had to want _something_ , and John was going to find out what it was.

The thing was, Jim Moriarty had tricked him, and John had fallen for it like an idiot.

He couldn't even say that he had really been tricked, because even after he'd seen the truth, he'd still gone along with it.

Polyjuice Potion.

When John had first seen Jim in that club over the summer, he'd been wearing Sherlock's face. Jim-as-Sherlock had bought him a drink, flirted with him and danced for hours. It was only after they left that John realized that Jim had been putting renewed doses of Polyjuice in his own drink and seduced him back to his flat. 

The Polyjuice had faded not long after they'd left, and John, upon realizing he'd been seduced under false pretenses, had been too turned on by that point to care that Jim had tricked him.

John knew that was a stupid excuse, and Merlin knew he didn't trust Slytherins, but it had just been one night, and no one had to find out. Jim himself had said he wasn't going to tell anyone about it, saying he was just testing the Polyjuice potion out.

He hadn't been able to help how he acted around Jim, and he'd thought that nobody would notice that either, at least not his fellow Gryffindors. Gryffindors and Slytherins were notorious in their rivalry, so it wasn't odd that John would avoid Moriarty. Of course, Sherlock had drawn a completely different conclusion.

John's problem was that if Sherlock dug around enough, he might figure out that John was attracted to him. And after the last debacle with Molly Hooper, John had no desire for Sherlock to figure it out, not if it meant he would be rejected loudly in the middle of lunchtime in the Great Hall.

Not to mention, he'd be outed.

It wasn't even that John thought he'd be harassed or anything. He was just embarrassed, and didn't want his sexuality to be up for speculation. As far as anyone knew, he just liked girls.

It was nobody else's business, and that was it.

Of course, Sherlock could make it everyone else's business with one careless comment.

Lost in thought, John didn't notice the rapid approach of footsteps behind him. It wasn't until he heard the warcry right next to his ear that he spun around and ended up engulfed in one of Harry's enthusiastic embraces.

"Hey Johnny," she said, holding on tight around his neck.

"Harry," John said with a sigh.

"So, I've heard that Holmes isn't telling how many people you've slept with," Harry said, grinning. "Is it because he's one of them?"

John gaped, glared, and pulled her behind the nearest tapestry.

"Am I right?" Harry asked gleefully, once John had removed his hand.

"No," John said, but Harry had the uncanny ability to dig around in the right spots. He had to head this one off at the pass.

"But you'd like to," Harry continued, and John hurriedly covered her mouth again.

"Harry, for the love of Merlin, shut up!" John hissed. "Have you mentioned your thoughts to anyone else?"

"Just Clara," Harry said, and John groaned. Harry might have only told Clara, but Clara would definitely tell anyone who stayed still long enough to listen.

John told her the whole story in an angry whisper, and Harry made little squeaks of excitement every once in a while. 

"You have to help me get this back under control," John finished with an exasperated arm wave. "I need to figure out what he wants so he won't tell anyone."

"It's odd, that he wouldn't say anything," Harry said musingly. "He never cares about anyone else's secrets, so why did he not out yours? The answer is, that he must care, for some reason."

"He does?" John asked, blinking and frowning. "But why?"

"No idea," Harry said with a shrug. "Why does he care that you slept with Jim? Is it because he's a man? Is it because he's a Slytherin? Is it because he's a Seeker? Who knows. Maybe it's something to do with Jim himself. But for some reason, Sherlock cares that you slept with Jim."

"I see," John said, frowning. "I have to find out. You've been an unexpectedly great help, Harry. Now go stop Clara from telling everyone that I like Sherlock Holmes."

"But you do."

"I don't want anyone, least of all him, to know."

"Might be too late already. But you know, Holmes never listens to gossip anyway."

"So reassuring," John said, but set off to find Sherlock. 

He wasn't brilliant like Sherlock was, and he couldn't deduce anything from just looking at him. The only way to figure this out was to confront him.

He was right, he was far too late to stop the spread of the rumour. It was even worse than he imagined.

"So, I heard you slept with Holmes?" Sally asked as he made his way across the Great Hall.

"No, I didn't," John denied, and looked around for Sherlock. "Where did you hear that?"

"Clara said," Sally answered with a smug grin.

"I didn't sleep with him," John repeated.

A dark, curly-haired head caught his attention, and ignoring Sally's repeated attempts to goad him, he took off in the same direction.

Sherlock noticed John trying to catch up to him and slowed down for him.

"Apparently we've had sex," he said conversationally. "It figures that the biggest rumour of the year is completely untrue. Imbeciles."

John didn't really know what to say anymore. In the space of a few hours, people were all speculating about his sex life. He'd failed at containing the incident, and now it hardly mattered if Sherlock told everyone he'd actually slept with Moriarty.

"So what brings you here?" Sherlock asked. "Obviously I know the rumour isn't true."

John thought about it for a moment, and then decided that he had a different mystery he wanted solved. Just because he'd been outed by his own sister's speculation, no matter how misplaced, didn't mean he couldn't get to the bottom of Sherlock's refusal to deduce him in the first place. Their classmates might have leapt to the wrong conclusion about Sherlock's silence, but John wanted to figure out the real reason.

"Why does it matter if I slept with Moriarty?" he asked.

"It doesn't," Sherlock said dismissively, but just a tad too quickly for John to quite believe him.

"Do you like him?" John asked, scratching his head. "You don't have to worry about that, you know. It was just a one-off."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and scoffed. "I don't _like_ anyone."

John was pretty certain that he was lying again, but John had never been very good at telling when someone was fibbing. He had no idea why Sherlock had a fascination with Moriarty, but as it seemed to be mutual, John should probably not try and get involved.

"Well, since you're here, I have something that I've been meaning to test," Sherlock said, before John could excuse himself.

"Test?" John asked warily. He'd had enough of being a test subject with the whole Moriarty thing, and he'd rather put an end to this entire situation.

"Yes," Holmes continued blithely. "Call it an experiment in broomstick handling. I've noticed a pattern in your technique and I wanted to test whether or not you can master different maneuvers and how quickly you improve."

"That's a strange experiment," John said. "And it's very particular if it's just involving me."

"Well, you see," Sherlock explained. "For a long time, I have considered my intelligence to be the only way that a person can be intelligent. However, after watching you, I have to rethink my own definition. Your learning technique is the exact opposite of mine, however, it seems to be extremely effective."

"You're testing my intelligence."

"Sort of. The reason I ask is that you saw my Wronski Feint last year. Precedence suggests that you can now do a fair imitation of the maneuver. But it's been almost three months since you've seen it. So I want to see how well you remember it and if you can pull if off."

"You know I have Quidditch practice for this sort of thing, right?" John asked.

"I've seen your teammates fly. You won't be learning any techniques from _them_."

"But I'll learn them from you?" John said skeptically. "Won't that put the Ravenclaw team at a disadvantage?"

"Since I'm the one you'll be playing, I don't think that will matter much," Sherlock said, waving a hand. "See, what I want to do is learn something myself in my style of learning and then see if you can learn it from me."

"If you like experiments so much, why don't you just do other experiments?" John asked, but already knew in his head he was going to agree.

"As if this one is my only experiment," Sherlock said. "But ever since I was banned from working by myself in the Potions lab, I've needed new practical experiments that don't involve dangerous explosive ingredients."

"Fine," John said, sighing. "But only because this will be good for Quidditch."

Sherlock beamed at him, and John wondered if this was as good an idea as he thought it would be. He liked Sherlock, and the more time he spent with him, the more likely it was that John would grow even more attached to him. Not only that, the more time he spent with the most observant wizard in England, the more likely it was that Sherlock would work his feelings out.

If anyone asked, he was doing it for the Quidditch.

OOooOO

John sat astride his Cleansweep 7 and smile as he felt the breeze gently ruffling his hair.

"Pay attention, John," Sherlock said, pulling up beside him. "See that marker I put on the ground down there? I want you to pretend that's where you saw the Snitch."

John squinted, and could just make out a red cross that Sherlock had drawn with his wand.

"So you want me to do it, just like that," John said. "You know, people get injured badly if they mess this one up."

"You agreed," Sherlock said. "You enjoy it, the thrill of not knowing whether or not you'll make it. It's why I chose you."

John conceded that this was true and concentrated, trying to remember the exact way he'd seen Sherlock do it last year. He could tell that Sherlock wanted to say something else, maybe to instruct him more on how to do this properly, but didn't want to invalidate the results.

That was just fine by John. He could do this.

John had always had an intrinsic knowledge of how his body worked, how it had to move in order to a certain task. From aerial acrobatics to wand motions, these things came to him naturally. All he had to do was watch. For classes like Ancient Runes and History of Magic which required him to listen and write things down, this way of learning wasn't so great. But John was brilliant at DADA, Charms and Transfiguration.

Visualize. It was terribly easy, because watching the way that Sherlock had moved was easy. He did that all the time, watching how Sherlock's body moved when he walked or flew. Even through the Quidditch robes, John knew exactly which muscles were bunching up or stretching in order to accomplish a maneuver.

John was flying before he even really thought it through. The red marker on the ground was his target, and he immediately dipped his nose and started streaking right toward it. He held nothing back. Most people's instinct was not to put everything behind it, because it was a feint. But in order for it to look real, one needed to put forth all their effort to get to that spot first, even if it was simply a distraction tactic.

He strained as hard as he could, pulling every bit of speed that he could out of his Cleansweep. He imagined that somewhere behind him, a rival Seeker was following him, and raced them to that spot on the ground.

The grassy field raced up towards him, closer and closer.

Somewhere in the back of his head, his brain told him he needed to pull up. He ignored it. The warning came more insistently, and then even more loudly as he ignored that as well.

Finally, when every instinct he had was screaming at him that he was going to crash, John pulled up hard. In what seemed like slow motion, he saw the ground pass by below him as he twisted back up into the air. He swore that if he'd reached out a hand, he could have touched the grass as it blew by him in a blur of green.

And then, he was back in the sky, spiralling up again, his close encounter with the ground behind him.

He saw Sherlock circling up ahead and watching through a pair of Omninoculars. As he approached, Sherlock put them away.

"That was impressive," Sherlock said. "I actually had doubts that this would work, but that was perfect. And when I say perfect, I do mean it that way and not as an overexaggeration."

"Thanks, I guess," John said with a shrug.

"Do you think you could improve upon it if you saw it again?" Sherlock asked.

"Possibly?" John said, not really thinking so, but it was better than telling Sherlock that he just wanted to see _him_ fly.

Sherlock flying was like watching a dancer. Every single move was made to look effortlessly elegant, but was calculated to the last spin.

Sherlock gave him the Omninoculars, and John watched him do a few warm-up maneuvers before he suddenly plunged from the sky. John could swear that he saw Sherlock calculating everything in his head, taking into account the angle of the sun, the strength and direction of the wind, even gravity's pull. It was like it was there, written above his head.

He blazed down out of the sky, eyes intense and his face eager and open in a way it wasn't when he was on the ground. John watched Sherlock dive on the Omninoculars again, over and over, because with the Omninoculars, John could see every exquisitely detailed movement.

Sherlock soared back to his side and said, "This time, I want you to chase me. Make me believe you're trying to catch me."

John couldn't tell him that he didn't have to pretend.

When they landed over an hour later, the sun was just going down as they went to go and put all their equipment away.

"You know, when I was eleven, I was a terrible flyer," Sherlock said.

"Impossible," John said, remembering the deliberate way that Sherlock made every maneuver.

"It's true," Sherlock said with a laugh. "I tried to fly intuitively, like you do, and I couldn't do it. My brother laughed at me, but I was determined to find a way to get good at it, to surpass everyone."

"You succeeded," John said, smiling helplessly at Sherlock's enthusiasm. "You fly like a dancer."

"You fly like a dragon," Sherlock said in return. "A dragon never thinks about how to fly. It just does."

The two of them were bantering back and forth in the Quidditch locker room, and John marvelled at the fact that Sherlock was talking to him at all. Sherlock was a loner, didn't have many people who could tolerate him, and didn't like hanging out with those that could. Mike said sometimes Sherlock helped him with Potions if he let him use the lab while doing extra studying. But for some reason, he wanted to talk to John.

"Well, what do we have here?" asked a snide voice.

Moriarty leaned against the nearest door, and as both of them looked up, he sauntered closer and smirked at them.

"How dull," he said when neither of them said anything. "I can understand why John likes Sherlock, because who's more fascinating than the self-made Quidditch progidy? But why John, Sherlock? He's so boring. Just look at his jumpers. Terrible."

"Hey!" John said, in defense of his jumpers.

"And you," Moriarty said, with a nasty grin. "Have you told Sherlock that he might as well just be someone else... like me, for instance? I mean, you didn't seem to mind the substitution earlier."

John felt his stomach drop. Moriarty had told him that he wasn't interested in gossip. Had he been lying after all?

"What are you talking about, Moriarty," Sherlock said flatly, but John could tell he was trying to work out what he meant.

Evidently, Moriarty could as well, because he grinned in malicious delight.

"I'm sure you figured out that your friend John and I had one night of fun together, but what I bet he didn't tell you is that he thought I was you."

Sherlock frowned and Moriarty said in a sing-song voice, "Polyjuice potion."

Sherlock frowned harder, lines etched into his face, and then sighed, "The last game we had against each other. You grabbed my hair. I thought you were just using your usual Slytherin tactics of distraction, but really, you wanted my hair."

"Indeed," Moriarty said, with a little smile. "But the best part is, that John here didn't even care when I changed back. Apparently, you mean very little to him, and one warm body is as good as the next."

Sherlock's face went completely blank, and he said, "I see."

And he turned around, grabbed his broom, and left the locker room without another word, before John could even speak up in his own defense. 

He'd left his Omninoculars on the bench he'd left so quickly.

"What did you go and say that for?" John hissed angrily.

"Oh, John. Don't you get it? Sherlock _likes_ you. And we can't have that, can we?"

"So sleeping with me actually was part of some bigger plot and had nothing to do with testing Polyjuice, like you said?"

Moriarty grinned. "You played your part perfectly. Should I tell him how sweet you were before you realized it was me?"

John bared his teeth angrily, suddenly furious at himself for falling for this.

"You were such a gentleman," Moriarty continued. "You really are sweet on him, aren't you? You spouted such horrid poetry about the light in my eyes and insipid things like that. And the soppy way you kept looking at me... I'm glad I spared Sherlock that, but I fear he may have actually enjoyed it. What a fool. I'll have to show him the true way of keeping his mind free of such clutter."

"I should have stopped as soon as I knew it was you," John spat. 

"But you diiiiidn't!" Moriarty laughed. "Oh, it's a good thing I wasn't a virgin like poor, little Sherlock. Quite rough, weren't you, once you found out it was me?"

John clenched his hands, heart thudding with rage. He wanted to punch Moriarty right in his smug face, but part of him remembered that even if Moriarty had tricked him at first, it had been his own choice to seal the deal. He deserved to be ridiculed like this.

"Would you have been gentle if it were Sherlock," Moriarty continued, and giggled. "Whispered sweet nothings in my ear as you held his hand? Said some ridiculous line, like 'I'll take care of you baby?' and ran your fingers through his hair?"

"Yes!" John finally snapped. "Yes, I would have."

Moriarty cackled again, grinning wildly. "But you won't get your chance now. Sherlock won't let you near him after all that. He doesn't like you anymore."

John was about to say something scathing in response, or at least as scathing as a Gryffindor could get, when he heard the light brush of footsteps near the doorway. Sherlock had returned, and was looking sharply between John and Moriarty. Had he heard what Moriarty had just said?

"But I do," Sherlock said, face inscrutable, and John felt his stomach tense. "Tell me, John. Do you really like me?"

"For some inexplicable reason, yes I do," John said, heart hammering. "Quite a lot, if you must know."

"And all those things Moriarty said you said to him when you thought he was me..."

"Yes, I did say them. My only regret is that I didn't get to say them to you. Real you."

"Oh, geez, not again!" Moriarty covered his ears in an exaggerated fashion. "It was bad enough listening to it the first time around. Sherlock Holmes, I think your mind is deteriorating if you'll let yourself be wooed by such a simple creature."

"And you think that after attempting to sabotage us, I would like you?" Sherlock asked with a derisive curl of his mouth.

"You know I'm not nice, Sherlock, and you're still fascinated by me," Moriarty said. "But, you know I tend toward mutually assured destruction in any case."

"That's a Muggle term," John interrupted, still trying to figure out what was going on.

"Muggles are so delightfully violent and chaotic, aren't they," Moriarty said with a grin.

"Yes, John said. "They are. And their fighting techniques aren't so endlessly fascinating as simply, very effective."

And then John actually did punch him in the nose.

Moriarty obviously hadn't been expecting an attack at all and yelped as he fell over on his arse. John didn't waste a second. He grabbed his broom and Sherlock's hand and started pulling him toward the door.

"Wait, my omninoculars!" Sherlock protested, hurriedly snatching them off the bench.

"You're risking our getaway for those?" asked John.

"They're the reason I came back in the first place!" Sherlock said pointedly. "Now, I believe we were fleeing a crime scene?"

As they raced back towards the castle, John couldn't help but catch Sherlock's eye and laugh. He knew that Sherlock really shouldn't just forgive him for being such a prat, but he liked it when Sherlock laughed. Sherlock hardly ever laughed.

"I like it when you smile," he said, because the sides of Sherlock's mouth were tipped up, not settling back into his usual blank demeanor.

"Why do you like me?" Sherlock demanded. "Moriarty might not be nice, but neither am I. I'm rude and anti-social and I do a lot of things that people would classify as dangerous."

"I rather like that about you," John admitted, scratching the back of his head.

"You do?" Sherlock looked baffled. 

"Yeah," John said with a shy smile. "I really do."

The two of them were so busy staring at each other, completely wrapped up in their conversation and the possibility of more, that they burst into the Great Hall together laughing and grinning madly.

That's when John realized that the Great Hall was very much full of people and they were all staring at the two of them.

And then John remembered his rumour, the one that Harry had accidentally started. Just because he had gotten his feelings a bit more sorted out did not mean he wanted people to be prying into his personal life. It was slightly too late for that, and if John left it like this now, people would be asking him questions for days.

Better get this bit over with, then.

He turned to Sherlock, smiled as their eyes met, and raised his hand to Sherlock's face, curling his fingers through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock figured out what he was about to do instantly, and dipped his head to meet him.

It didn't feel like a first kiss. First kisses, in John's experience, were awkward and a bit messy until practice matched their movements together. This was an entirely different experience. As soon as Sherlock's mouth met his, it felt like flying.

After they broke apart, Sherlock's face was flushed, but he was smiling.

"I hope you've made your point," he murmured, voice deepened.

"Oh, I certainly did," John said, taking Sherlock's hands in his. "I think they understand. Do you?"

"I rather think I do," Sherlock said, and then pulled on their joined hands and dragged John toward the exit.

As they made their way further into the castle, presumably toward the Ravenclaw tower, John commented, "This was rather abrupt. I didn't intend for this to happen so quickly. Or without asking you what you wanted out of this entire situation."

"If you know what you want, don't hesitate," Sherlock said. "It didn't take me very long to make a decision based on the facts at hand. Oh, probably about 0.6 seconds, I would say."

"Almost an entire second to decide?" John asked, nudging his shoulder. "Sure you aren't having second thoughts?"

"It only took _you_ an entire summer to decide," Sherlock scoffed.

"It's kind of obvious what happened, now that I have time to think on the question," Sherlock continued. "You had reservations when you were dating Sarah at the end of last term. I didn't know what they were at the time, but I did notice them."

"Did you?" John asked, fascinated.

"Of course I did," Sherlock said, cheeks pinking. "I always notice you, John."

"Well, go one then. Deduce me," John said, grinning.

"You were questioning your sexuality. I can't exactly pinpoint why –"

"It was you," John input.

Sherlock's cheeks darkened, but he went on, "Yes, of course. But you were dating Sarah. You didn't know why, but your sexuality confused you, and you wanted to explore and challenge it, as Gryffindors do. Sarah picked up on your misgivings, and you drifted apart. Of course, as soon as you saw Moriarty pretending to be me, you must have finally gotten the courage to try something. I have no doubt that Moriarty manufactured this encounter by watching your movements carefully and manipulating you the entire way."

"But why does he want you? And why bother to manipulate me if it was you he wanted?" John asked, shaking his head.

"He doesn't want me for reasons that have to do with messy things like sex and romance," Sherlock explained. "He likes my mind. He thinks of it like his own, and anything to do with wayward emotions would contaminate it. But he must have realized last year... that the regard I held for you was not entirely cerebral."

Sherlock flushed all the way up to his ears at this admission, but his step didn't falter.

"But even so..." John said, scratching his head. "It must bother you... that I shagged him. Even though I figured out his trick. I shouldn't have, but I did, all the same."

They arrived at a door, and John waited anxiously while Sherlock answered the door's riddle.

_"Our brightest beacon in the night doesn't shine its own light."_

"The moon," Sherlock said, and was admitted, still pulling John behind him.

He stopped suddenly, and turned to John. "It wasn't a strange thing, you know, wanting to know what it was like. Curiosity. Ravenclaws have it in spades. You wanted to know if you liked men, and you were given an opportunity to find out. So you took it. Not strange at all. I can understand wanting to experiment. You wanted to find out."

"Do you?" John asked, suddenly nervous. "Want to find out what it's like?"

"I –" Sherlock also suddenly looked nervous too. "Maybe. I don't know. I always thought that I would find it overwhelming and strange."

"It's okay, you know. To want to wait, or to have doubts," John said.

Sherlock took a deep breath and said, "But I also want to find out. I've just been given the best opportunity. My body is willing, it is my mind that has doubts. And I trust you."

Sherlock still looked nervous, but John's heart beat harder as his head filled with tender thoughts. How embarrassing. He wanted to take care of Sherlock, like he was some fainting damsel, even though he himself didn't have that much experience. No matter what anyone said, having sex a grand total of four times did not an expert make.

"Would you like to come up?" Sherlock offered shyly.

John lifted their joined hands and squeezed it gently, and said, "Yes."

How they actually made it all the way up the stairs to Sherlock's dorm was a mystery. All John remembered was a blur of stairs, blood pumping ferociously through his veins, and Sherlock's hand tight in his, palm slightly sweaty with nerves.

They toppled onto Sherlock's bed fully clothed, broomsticks forgotten on the floor in the middle of the room.

John kissed Sherlock for ages, delighting in the soft curve of his mouth, the warm slickness between them, and the sweet way Sherlock would seek his mouth out again as soon as John went to pull away. Sherlock's hair was so soft under his fingers, and John cupped his head in his hands and stroked the sharp lines of his cheekbones as he kissed him. It was glorious, and John's chest hummed in contentment.

Eventually, John became aware of his own desire coiling warm and ready in his stomach, and he pulled back to unfasten his robes. Sherlock watched, captivated, reaching out a curious hand to try and find warm skin under John's depleted layers. 

He pulled Sherlock closer, burying his nose in the junction of Sherlock's neck, licking and biting softly while Sherlock made soft sounds and arched his neck to the side, long fingers burying themselves in John's hair.

John was down to his pants before he finally moved to start taking off Sherlock's clothes. Sherlock's hands skated over his skin, touching everything they could reach. Sherlock's eyes were dark as he surveyed John in his undressed state, running his fingers through the hair beginning to grow in on John's chest.

John started on Sherlock's robes, and Sherlock tried to help, fingers clumsy. 

He was obviously anxious about John's possible reaction to seeing his body, blushing as he looked at John's expression, examining it for any criticism. John, of course, couldn't find any. Here was this beautiful, proud creature willing to strip away his layers and be vulnerable before John. How could John find that anything but absolutely enthralling?

The thought must have shown on his face, because Sherlock pulled him closer again, revelling in more languid snogging and the closeness of warm skin.

Finally, he grasped one of Sherlock's hands, and watching Sherlock's expression, moved Sherlock's hand to cover John's erection. Fascinated by the warm weight in his palm, Sherlock stroked up John's length through his pants, feeling its outline. With a look at John, who nodded his permission, Sherlock slipped his hand under the waistband of John's pants.

John threw back his head with a hiss of pleasure, falling on his back, legs splayed, while Sherlock leaned over him and curiously wrapped his fingers around John's cock. Obviously wanting to get a closer look, Sherlock started pulling John's pants off, and John lifted his hips to help. 

John buried his fingers in his own hair and watched as Sherlock looked his fill, fascinated with the way John's foreskin pulled back to expose the wet, ruddy glans underneath.

"Sherlock..." John gasped, trying to pump his hips up.

"John, I want to... can I..." Sherlock met his eyes and flushed. "I want to put my mouth on it. Can I, John?"

"Merlin, yes," John said.

Sherlock dipped his head and lapped at the head of his cock, before carefully putting his mouth around it, bobbing his head to slowly take more in. It was slightly awkward, a bit sloppy and very wet, but to John, it felt glorious. He was sprawled out on his bed, knees spread, with Sherlock lying in between them, propped up on his elbow and experimenting with the way his mouth fit around John's cock.

John whimpered as Sherlock pulled away.

"Will you..." and now Sherlock was flushed all over, from the tips of his ears down to his chest. "Will you touch me?"

"Of course," John said, and Sherlock haltingly guided John's hand down to where Sherlock's erection was hard and leaking against the soft cotton of his pants.

"Oh!" Sherlock gasped, far more high-pitched than John imagined he'd be able to vocalize.

Sherlock's hands fisted in the covers, knuckles turning white as Sherlock made a concentrated effort to stay still. He was trembling and making little gasping noises in between going completely slack-jawed as John touched him lightly. 

John stroked down the inside of his inner thighs, where his skin was still silk-soft and milky white. Sherlock keened and spread his legs, and John put his face down to nuzzle into the warm muskiness of Sherlock's groin.

"Merlin," Sherlock gasped, panting as he looked down the length of his body at John.

John gently removed Sherlock's pants, while Sherlock's eyes were too glazed over with pleasure to give way to nervousness or body shyness.

Sherlock's cock was flushed red, and by this point, completely soaked with precome. John's hand slid easily up and down its length and over the head. 

"I didn't do this, you know. With Moriarty. In this instance, you're my first," John commented.

"This instance –?" Sherlock tried to ask and cut himself off with a strangled yelp as John returned the favour, trying to remember what he liked when someone else had given him oral sex.

Sherlock tasted bitter, but that was to be expected. He was leaking so much, and John lapped at the slit of his cock, trying to coax more out of him. Sherlock whined and writhed on the bed as John held his hips steady with one hand. He had cute, round bollocks, and John had to put his mouth on them.

Sherlock pratically sobbed as John lapped at them, drawing them into his mouth and sucking gently. He drew his knees up, exposing himself more, and John pressed his thumb against the tender patch of skin behind his balls. 

"God, more John," Sherlock gasped, head thrown back and chin tilted up.

"More?" John asked.

"Lower!" Sherlock demanded, wriggling and pushing his hips up.

Dear sweet Merlin and Morgana.

John caressed his thumb gently over Sherlock's tightly furled pink opening, and Sherlock hummed in response, settling down as John pressed down slightly and it gave against the pressure.

"Will you let me –"

"Yes!"

John muttered a hasty lubrication spell, one that was slightly over-enthusiastic in his nervousness. Fingers coated, he rubbed at Sherlock's hole more firmly, and at Sherlock's insistent wiggle, finally let one digit sink in to the first joint.

Sherlock shivered, and he panted helplessly as John drew his finger back out and pushed in again, deeper. God, Sherlock was so warm and tight inside, clamping down on his finger possessively. 

It was so good, watching Sherlock come undone as John introduced more fingers at Sherlock's insistence. When John had three fingers in, John crawled back up Sherlock's body to kiss his lax mouth softly.

"You're doing so well," John whispered next to his ear.

"John, please," Sherlock panted. "You know what I want."

"I need you to tell me," John said. "Just say it, and I'll do exactly as you want."

Sherlock closed his eyes and groaned. "Don't make me say it."

John leaned their foreheads together, feeling Sherlock's damp curls resting against his face. "I need you to say it. Please tell me."

"Make love to me. Please. I need you to," Sherlock capitulated, eyes scrunched tight.

"I will," John said, kissing one eyelid, then the other. "Promise."

Sherlock opened his eyes, and John captured them with his just as the tip of his cock rested against the slick entrance. It gave easily, and Sherlock grasped at John's hips and pulled him closer, letting John slide deeper, inch by inch.

God, it was tight, and Sherlock was breathing hard, tears leaking out the sides of his eyes. 

"I'm okay," Sherlock gasped tightly. "I'm okay. Just so... much... feeling."

John reached out to take one of Sherlock's hands in his, twining their fingers together. Sherlock smiled and squeezed back.

John knew he wasn't going to last long after that. Sherlock was filling every one of his senses, he was fit to burst with all the sensations washing over him. The aching feeling in his chest was more intense than the thrum of arousal that filled him with every pump of his hips.

"John!" Sherlock wailed suddenly at a shift in angle.

A few more deep thrusts to the same spot, and Sherlock was screaming his name and coming hard, free hand grabbing John's hip to pull him in deeper. Sherlock shuddered beneath him, release spilling out over his belly. Sherlock clenched tight around John, and with a sensory overload like that, it wasn't long before John followed, face buried in Sherlock's collarbone.

They lay tangled together on top of the bedsheets for a long while, although John didn't keep track of the time, far too content to be wrapped up in Sherlock's warm, pliant embrace. Even after John's softening cock pulled out, John still felt connected. John rested their foreheads together and they breathed the same air gently.

John knew he should get up and head back to Gryffindor, but he couldn't bring himself to leave. Eventually, Sherlock shifted them so that he could get the blankets over them, and he fell asleep in a warm coccoon that smelled of Sherlock.

Waking up and making his way back to his Common Room while still bearing the marks of their sexual escapade the next morning was a bit awkward, but nothing would get John to leave before Sherlock woke up. John made sure to kiss him goodbye and promise to meet him later before disappearing back to Gryffindor to meet the raucous congratulations from his Housemates.

He and Sherlock continued their experimentation with adapted Quidditch learning skills as well as their now-famous relationship. It was working out well for them, and Sherlock was infinitely smug about the whole thing, citing the entire situation as Sherlock's doing.

But John couldn't help but think of Moriarty as being a contributing influence.

Maybe he would send Moriarty a thank you for all this. Moriarty certainly did like his cerebral pasttimes, so John thought that he might send him an actual report, an essay to record the facts and data for Moriarty's benefit.

He thought he might title it "A Lesson in Broomstick Handling: a comprehensive study by Sherlock Holmes and John H. Watson."

End


End file.
